The Yogomori Metronome
by Angrybee
Summary: Tatsuha, alone and angry, talks to Kumagoro at the temple about why he wants to hate Ryuichi. Rated for numerous adult fantasies on Tatsuha's part and language


DISCLAIMER: Gravitation is the property of Maki Murakami. This story is merely a work of fanfiction, and will not be distributed for profit.

SECOND DISCLAIMER: Gravitation is a work of shounen-ai, and due to this,  
this story will contain aspects of homosexual or bisexual relationships.  
If this offends you, please do not read the story.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The Yogomori Metronome

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

I swear, you can only sweep a temple floor so many times before the broom fuses to your hands. Next, I'll be scrubbing the damn thing with soap and water and a rag that probably predates the Meiji Era. Because it has to shine. It has to fucking shine. I don't feel right unless I can see my goddamn face in the thing.

Shiny. Everything had to be so damn shiny for him. 

Now that I think about it, Nittle Grasper is barely big enough to contain the three of them, and each of their goddamn neuroses. Noriko with her perpetual narcissism. Oh, she hid it well, but I could see. Being a monk is about the closest thing you can get to being a psychologist without having to go through all the schooling. She always had that mirror. Was always checking her face, her hair, even her cuticles.

And then there's Tohma with his hypochondria and obsessive compulsive need for cleanliness. That is probably one of the main reasons Ryuichi likes him so much. Because everything Tohma owns or touches has to be clean and shiny.

And then there's my Ryuichi. No. Not mine. How many times do I have to tell myself that? He's not mine anymore. Not mine. 

But, Ryuichi. How can you even begin to classify what the hell is wrong with that man? I've been all through the psychological books I could find, and I haven't found word one describing anything -near- an explanation. He changes from one moment to the next, like some sort of perpetual chemical reaction, never the same molecule twice.

"I'm empty," he told me once, during one of his more darkly serious moments, "On the inside. No personality. No morals. There's just nothing of substance residing within me. I'm a drinking glass, empty and see-through. Whatever someone pours into me, that's what I hold, what I am."

And pour into him, I did, didn't I? I squeezed out the very ambrosia he'd always wanted to contain, a sparkling mirage of liquid mercury, a fairy-land high tea for my Elvin King.

And then, in my clumsiness, knocked the glass off the table and shattered it into a million pieces.

What am I telling -you- this for, hm? You know. You were there, you idiotic toy.

I look up from my cleaning towards the table at the back of the room. There he is, dumpy and furry and pink, sitting there with the same look he always has on his face, and will always have on his face, until the end of time. Stupid Kumagoro. Stupid, stupid, stupid...inanimate object.

I hate you, you know that? 

So, why do I still take you with me, why do I cart you around everywhere I go? Still. STILL. After fucking -years-. Why do I still have to have you with me, just so I can sleep? What the fuck do I gain by crushing you to my face, trying to find his scent on you, trying to find even a drop of Ryuichi's smell, like a man dying of thirst in a desert? 

I guess even I, a monk, a supposed 'spiritual leader' can have a secret neurosis. 

Well, I'm only fucking 20 years old. What do you expect?

But, I know, even though I hardly want to admit it, that I still take you everywhere because I'm hoping, even though I shouldn't, even though it is cruel to myself as well as Ryuichi, that one day he'll come back to me. He'll just walk up to me like nothing ever happened, and we'll be together again. I'll give you back to him, slyly, shyly, just tucking you under his arm without a word. And then, in my stupid fantasy, Ryuichi always says to me, "You took such good care of Kumagoro, Tatsuha! Oh! I forgive you! I forgive you! Let's never be apart again!"

You make me continue to hope, and I hate you for that.

More than I hate father for dying and stranding me here in this temple, all alone at age eighteen...

More than I hate my aniki for escaping this place...

More than I hate Shindou Shuichi for staying with my aniki no matter what, and for having what I lost...

More than I hate the music of Nittle Grasper, and everything associated with it, for all the devastatingly beautiful memories that it brings, for all the unfulfilled longings contained in every note, the need and desire and unrelenting craving echoed in his voice...

More than I hate Sakuma Ryuichi for doing exactly what he should have done, for ruining my innocence by never giving up his own, for never...never once...ever...even calling to let me know he's alright...

More than all those things, for making me hold on to hope, for reminding me of him, for failing to bring him back to me...

Kumagoro, I hate you.

I absolutely loathe you.

(And the metronome swings to the right.)

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

It didn't happen anywhere near the way I'd ever suspected. I'd always thought I'd have to trap him, in an elevator, or pin him against the wall in the hallway, or literally tie him up with ropes. I thought I'd have to practically rape him, kiss him over and over and over until he understood that I, Uesugi Tatsuha, am the only person on the planet who could ever, ever, love him truly the way he was meant to be loved. 

But, it didn't happen like that at all. 

I had -just- turned seventeen that December when, god knows how, Shindou Shuichi convinced my aniki that his twenty-third birthday should be celebrated with a party. I'm fairly certain that Shuichi had to do something monstrously convincing to get Eiri to consent to -that-, and since Shu will drop to his knees and bawl like a baby at the drop of a hat, I'm not even sure I want to -imagine- what tactics he employed to get my notoriously anti-social brother to permit a -party-.

So, aniki was turning twenty-three, and I was invited to the party. Sure. I'm always up for a party. Schmoozing. Drinking (when aniki and Mika aren't looking). Flirting. Maybe even dancing. These were all at the very -top- of my book of ways to spend an evening. 

So, I show up in a rather stylish dinner jacket over a rather sexy and faded black t-shirt. The jacket is because I know, with my aniki in on the planning, this will start off as a posh and erudite affair. And the t-shirt is because, with Shuichi in on the planning, I know it won't end as one. 

I roam around their apartment, which is full of people, many of whom grab my cheeks and tell me that I look just like my brother. It seems like, for a man who stays in his house as much as he can, Eiri sure does know a lot of people. You can absolutely tell Eiri's friends from Shuichi's. Aniki's are drinking wine and discussing Russian literature. Shuichi's are drinking cola and discussing anime. Nonetheless, the crowd seems to be mingling well. The atmosphere is upbeat and congratulatory, possibly a first for my brother's apartment.

I wander towards the back of the apartment, heading for Eiri's room fully intent on ransacking his closet for fashion ideas. Alright, alright, I'm completely intending on stealing some of his designer clothes before the night is through. What does he care? He's got money, and fame, and Shuichi. What the fuck does he need to impress anyone for, anymore?

Dark, and stark, and moonlit, I find a room that, no matter how much they spray cinnamon air freshener in here, always has a lingering scent of sex. Well, good for Shuichi, I say. Good for him. I hope he fucks you vertical, horizontal and upside-down, aniki. You could use it.

I head for the closet without turning on the light. I know where it is, because, frankly, I've done this before. I think Eiri almost -expects- it, now. Well, if he doesn't, he should. I slide the door open and begin to flip through his shirts, deciding what should become mine merely based on the texture of the fabric. The colors don't matter, since Eiri and I share the same skin tone, whatever looks good on him is going to look even better on me.

"Tat...su...ha...kun?"

As I jump back, one of the hangers, and subsequently the shirt on it, comes with my hand. I hold it across my chest, somehow instinctively thinking that I can protect myself with a goddamn plastic hanger. 

The closet...just...spoke to me.

"Tatsuha-kun?"

I squint, trying to make out the figure curled into a ball at the bottom of the closet. Knees pulled up to his chest, hands clenched tightly around his calves, little glimmers of white gold as the moonlight reflects in the eyes...looking up at me...

And one single, floppy, pink ear of that damn toy hanging out over his upper arm.

I'm so shocked that I completely forget to scream. I mean, that's Sakuma Ryuichi down there, curled up in a tight little ball at the bottom of my brother's closet, whimpering my name. But, I couldn't scream if I wanted to. Someone sucked all the air out of the room and replaced my lungs with lead weights. 

Sakuma-sama is...

The scrumptious icing on the cake of life...

The Tigris and the Euphrates giving birth to civilization...

He is Orpheus, inconsolable, spurning the violent advances of the Maenads.

Sakuma-sama is...

The sun around which all heavenly bodies desire to orbit.

Sakuma-sama is...

Sniffling and rubbing at his nose.

Oh, I've met him at least a dozen times before, sure. But never, exactly, like this. Never when I haven't been looking for him. Never when I was in the middle of a vaguely criminal act. (Though, I'm always imagining very criminal acts, where Sakuma-san is concerned.)

Of course, I had -hoped- he would show up here. But, the party was in full swing, and no one I had asked (and I had asked everyone) had seen Sakuma-san, I had guessed that he wasn't coming. 

Having lost all interest in absconding with Eiri's clothes, I put down the hanger and kneel to get a better look. Sakuma-san is definitely dressed for the party, bound in those tight leathers and little red velvet vest which, I can tell even in the darkness, does little to cover any of his torso. But, I 'm trying not to think about that. Or the fact that I've never had sex in a closet. Especially Eiri's closet.

"Hey, Sakuma-san, what's wrong? Are you alright?" What a stupid question. How is it that I am rendered idiotic by his mere presence? OF COURSE HE'S NOT ALRIGHT. He's sniffling, probably crying, and he's sitting the dark right below Eiri's trousers. Let's try another tactic. "I thought you liked parties."

"Kumagoro likes parties," responds a childlike voice in the darkness. I see the pink bunny shift, and it moves out of the closet towards my face. It is like Close Encounters of the Bunny Kind. "But, Kumagoro doesn't like this party at all."

"Why not?"

"Someone touched Kumagoro without his permission."

Alright, so here is my mental dilemma... Did someone actually touch the bunny? Or did they touch Sakuma-san? But, the biggest question is whether or not Eiri will let me use his car to transport the dead body.

"Who did it?"

Kumagoro, now fully in my face, blocking my already limited view of Sakuma-san, shakes his head. "Kumagoro doesn't know the person."

"I see." Not really, no, I don't. Doesn't the man have bodyguards? I mean, those brutes try to stop -me- every time I try to get close to him. "So, then you came in here to hide from the person?"

The bunny nods.

"You know, if you want, you can go out to the party with me. I'll protect you from the person, if you see them again. I may not look like much, but I throw a mean left hook."

Kumagoro retreats back into the closet, and after a few moments, I hear another couple of sniffles, and then a rustling noise. I could be wrong, but I think Sakuma-san is blowing his nose on one of Eiri's suits. He rolls forward out of the closet, shoulders and head first. "Violence is bad, Tatsuha-kun. You shouldn't punch anyone if you can help it, okay?"

"Well, I guess." He does have a point. I'm supposed to be a monk, and all. Non-violent, and such. But, everything gets thrown out of the window where Sakuma-san is concerned. "Is spitting allowed?"

"Not according to Tohma. But, I use a different rulebook than him." I see his face lighten, lift. A simple, but somehow enigmatic smile appears, one that bests the brilliance of the moonlight pouring into the window. Ah, damn. He's trying to kill me. "My rulebook is written in crayon, na no da."

"Tohma's is probably written in his own blood." Sarcasm. Probably not the best choice, but it comes out without forethought. Great. Now I'm insulting Sakuma-san's best friend. 

"Oh no. No no no no no." An even wider smile appears. "Tohma only uses the blood of his victims. He has a lot of rules, you know? If he used his own blood, he'd collapse."

Okay, how could I help but laugh? 

I don't get it. I know everything about Sakuma-san. I know his favorite foods, favorite colors. I know his shoe size. I have pictures of his childhood home in Sendai. I've studied every music video, every Nittle Grasper DVD, every television interview, every magazine article. I've begged acquaintances for every single snippet of information possible. But, I still...don't get it. 

Who is he?

I guess that is why he fascinates me, has always fascinated me. Most people I know have the personalities of moss-covered bricks. But, with Sakuma-san, you just...never know. How could you possibly get bored?

Plus, fucking hell, he has a painfully succulent little ass, which I am so glad I can't see, right at the moment. Because it would probably reduce me to tears. 

"Tatsuha-kun, you seem full of thoughts!"

"I..." 

"Kumagoro is full of the thought that he wants to go to the party now, with you...like you said, na no da." This is said in his usual genki tone, and then followed by a much quieter, almost shy, addition of, "If you...don't mind."

Those final four words send a delicious shiver pulsing through my vertebrae. If my spinal cord could orgasm, it would probably feel just like this.

"No, of course not. I'll stick by your side the entire time." I stand, and offer him my hand to pull him up. He hesitates for a second, just long enough for me to notice. 

And I have to wonder, is it possible that Sakuma Ryuichi, the man who has charmed crowds of thousands upon thousands with his voice is...shy?

But, as quickly as it appears, this strange mood is replaced with laughter. After I pull Sakuma-san up, he grabs my arm and clutches it to his chest. He's got a better grip than you would think. I'm yanked in his direction...imprisoned.

Hell, if this is prison, sign me up for thirty-to-life.

"Tatsuha-kun, I wish we had handcuffs!"

WHAT IN THE HOLY LIVING FUCK?

"Because then there would be absolutely no way for us to get separated at the party!"

Goddamnit. I wish I knew where Eiri kept his sex toys. Surely he and Shuichi do all sorts of kinky bondage play in here.

Note to self: Always, always, ALWAYS, carry handcuffs on you. Just in case Sakuma-san EVER makes this suggestion again.

Additional note to self: Lose key.

"Don't worry, Sakuma-san. Even if we do get separated, you have only to call my name, and I'll be there."

"Okay. And, if we get separated, and you need me or Kumagoro, you should sing John Lennon's 'Imagine'."

I try not to choke as we walk together towards the door. "But, I can't..." 

"I like that song, na no da."

"I'll...try." 

"Say, Tatsuha-kun..."

"Hm?" 

I feel Kumagoro climbing on my arm. The toy approaches my ear, as if it wished to whisper a secret to me. But, of course, the whisper comes from Sakuma-san. "Did someone touch you, too?"

"Uh. No. What made you think that?"

"Well, I was wondering why you were in Yuki-san's closet."

"I was..." I was stealing my brother's clothes. I can't tell him that. That's got to be just about the most uncool thing I could ever reveal about myself. Damn. Damndamndamn. "I was..."

"Were you lost?"

I try not to sigh my relief too heavily. Being lost is only -mildly- uncool, but better than wearing your brother's clothes. "Yes. I was lost."

"I'm glad we found you, then."

He's so warm against my arm. A comfort I've never known before washes over me. There's something so wonderful, so right, so blissful, about the way Sakuma-san approaches life, about the way he speaks. Because, even if he didn't really find me, even if I was the one who discovered him, I still feel...

Found.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

If you've never been to Eiri's apartment, you aren't missing much. Decorated to the pinnacle of starchy aloofness, I have no idea how Shuichi can live here and call it home. I try to mess it up for Eiri, on occasion. You know, just to give the place a good lived-in feel. But, it never lasts for long. He always gets someone to clean it up.

Still, at the moment, there is no place I'd rather be than right here. Sakuma-san's clinging to my arm, laughing, pointing out everything funny about the world.

Glances flicker in our direction, too-quick peeks. People know immediately that they shouldn't stare too long, but they -should- file away this information. Predatory. Every time I accidentally look away from Sakuma-san, I notice that everyone in the room has become some sort of predator. Wanting something. There's a gross vibe of greed, slippery, dank like mildew. These people, some of them, don't even -know- Sakuma-san. Not personally. Not like I know him, or...want to know him. Still, it's on their minds. Commodity. Sakuma-san is a precious commodity. For sex. For song. For fame. 

Is this what it is like for Sakuma-san all the time?

Or, am I just imagining this? Am I paranoid? Am I...

Just like them?

No. Concentrate. This is a beautiful moment, and I am ruining it with the fear that it might end. Of course it will end, but why spoil everything by not living in the now? I'm sure my father would have some lovely Buddhist tenets to spout about the whole situation. Something wise, terribly insightful, and thoroughly unhelpful.

"You have to drink one of these, Tatsuha-kun! I came up with it myself. It's called a Purple Crayon! Oh, wait..." He stands on his toes and brings his face so close to mine that I could probably count every individual eyelash. "You can't drink, can you?"

"Huh? Sure! I drink sometimes." Come -on-. I'm seventeen for crying out loud. If there is a seventeen year old in Tokyo who hasn't had alcohol, they are probably the most boring person on Earth. But, how am I going to convince Sakuma-san that I...

"But, didn't you come on your motorcycle?"

I blink. He remembers my motorcycle? He remembers going to the zoo with me? I thought for sure he'd forgotten... "Yeah. I did."

"Then you can't drink and drive, silly."

Amida Buddha dipped in pudding, that's sweet. He doesn't want me to die a flaming death tangled up in the burning wreckage of my bike. Mmm. Tangled up... Ryuichi. Limbs. A dark, secluded road to nowhere. We could fuck on the center stripe. I could grind him into the pavement. Damn. I need to say something. "Well, just a sip couldn't hurt, right?"

That strangely giving, yet sometimes vapid, smile on his lips, he stares at me. It lingers for several nanoseconds more than it should. Something is processing in the mind of Sakuma Ryuichi, I think. 

"One taste, na no da!"

"Alright." I reach for the shot glass.

"Wait! Not like that!"

Oh SHIT. What did I do?

Sakuma-san steps up onto the bottom rung of the barstool. Now we're the same height. "It's a -crayon-. A purple crayon."

Shit. I don't get it. Is it some sort of riddle? Some sort of game? Am I supposed to understand... Or not understand? Am I currently radiating one point twenty-one jigawatts of uncool? 

"Crayons are for drawing, Tatsuha-kun. Everyone knows that."

I know that.

But, I must be looking at the man like he's grown a second dick, because he just laughs quietly. Not that super-friendly, overly-happy laugh, but one which draws from every moment of every year of his age. 

And, because I am looking at his eyes, and the almost completely unnoticable laugh-lines which encircle them, I don't notice when Sakuma-san dips his finger into the shot glass. I do notice, however, when that warm, liquor-slicked digit finds its way to my bottom lip. It taps against my mouth, then slides upwards, and across. 

Oh. I get it. He's drawing on my mouth. It's a -crayon-.

I have never been so completely turned on by the idea of an inanimate object before. Well, except for my Sakuma Ryuichi Fashion Doll, which I only bought because it is necessary for my set, and not because I like to collect dolls or anything like that. And so what if I -do- let it sleep on my pillow when I'm not home? C'mon, I can't put that thing in some dark, bland, cardboard box. That's like sacrilege.

But back to the party, back to the free bar Eiri so generously provided, and back to Sakuma-san touching my lips. Impish mirth sparkles in his gaze. Damn the people in this room. They can all watch with churning jealousy as I bend this man over the bar, and...

And, I realize, when Sakuma-san turns away and lifts the shot glass to slam his concoction in one swallow, that he's not just playing a game. He's playing with -me-. Toying with me. Maybe he's even trying to figure me out, push my limits, test me. I'm not sure, not exactly. But, I think I'm no longer just a face in the crowd. I'm someone he knows. I'm real to him, or at the very least, becoming more real by the moment.

He turns back to me and smiles as he wipes away an escaped droplet of liquor from the corner of his mouth with Kumagoro's ear. "You're supposed to taste, Tatsuha-kun."

Oh.

Ri-ight.

How sexy can I make this? It has to be devastating, because Sakuma-san is looking directly at my lips. Oh fucking damnit, I wish I'd thought of this first, before he did. Then I'd be the one watching him lick -his- lips. Watching that hot, shameless tongue dart out and plunder the secrets of the selfsame flesh through which perfection-in-music shapes itself. 

I try my best to lick my lips clean, and make it appear alluring, but I am not sure if I accomplish anything besides ending up looking like a dork. I've defenestrated the remarkable Uesugi cool, and all I have left is 'bumbling teenager'. This is no good at -all-.

"Tastes like grape soda, right?"

I nod. It does -actually- taste a little like grape soda. It tastes a lot more like very expensive vodka, however. 

For a moment, we're in our own little world. The fifty or so other people in this room have no basis in reality. They are cardboard. They are merely holographs, extras in the 'Sakuma-san and Tatsuha' movie. I'm having such a good time, that I'm pretty sure I could bottle this feeling and sell it on the black market to junkies for a hundred-thousand yen a hit.

And then it all falls apart. Some fat -asshole- elbows his way between Sakuma-san and I. I didn't realize that Shuichi or Eiri knew anyone unbeautiful or unglamorous.

"Sakuma-sa-an," he says with an utterly fake chipperness that oozes fetid slime. "Remember me? Kotowari Houji! DJ for 'The Tempo'. Remember? You were on our show a few months ago. Absolutely smashing performance. Our ratings..."

This guy just babbles on and on. I look down, over this guy's bald spot, at Sakuma-san, who is now sitting on the barstool. His smile goes through stages. It's like watching one of those high-speed high school science films of the life-cycle of a bumblebee. In the larval stage, the smile is still fresh, full of life. Then the carapace hardens, obscuring the softness within. The corners of his mouth twitch, performing their own anxious dance as the hive becomes attacked. Finally, the predator, this DJ, succeeds in killing Sakuma-san's smile altogether. End film. Fade-to-black. Be sure to brush your teeth daily, kids.

Unforgivable. 

I know what I must do. I'm not exactly a boxer, never been trained in any sort of martial art. But, when it comes to Sakuma-san, I'm a soldier on the battlefield of love, and there is little that can stop me. And if this guy doesn't turn around and murder me, I'll gain cool points up the wazoo. 

God, I hope the murdering part doesn't happen.

With both hands, I grab this guy's shoulder and push him away from the bar. And, fuck me, he actually flies backwards and lands on his ass. Am I cool or what? 

"Hey!" he shouts. "I'm trying to talk to..."

"Get lost, loser. Sakuma-san is trying to enjoy himself. And you are not enjoyable."

A couple of people turn away from their conversations and stare at us. But, most of them are too blitzed, and too used to commotion (probably more Shuichi's friends than Eiri's) that they don't even seem to notice.

The tubby asshole, on the other hand, scrambles up to his, I'm sure, hobbity-gross feet, and crosses his arms. "And who the fuck are you to speak for Sakuma-san? Huh, kid?"

This whole time, Sakuma-san hasn't turned away from the bar. He's staring over the counter, at the line of brightly colored bottles opposite the counter. I look at him, and then back at this idiot. I'm not exactly sure how to answer. Because, I don't want to offend Sakuma-san, even more than I don't want to get murdered, I don't want to offend my idol.

"I'm...um...his..." Friend? Maybe? Maybe not? Crap. "I'm a..."

That's when I feel pressure on my upper arm, and that remarkably strong grip pulling on me. When I look down, I see Sakuma-san has turned away from the bar, and is holding onto me for dear life, again. I curse my suit, the barrier between my skin and his, as he leans his head against my shoulder. 

"He's Tatsuha-kun, na no da." Oh good LORD, I think he's rubbing his cheek against my arm. My Deity is kind in rewarding his protector. Too kind. But, all too quickly, the rubbing stops. Sakuma-san's grip, and his voice, becomes severe, commanding, and intense. "He's Tatsuha. And you're nobody."

Oooo. Go Sakuma-san. Burned him, and burned him good!

The fat idiot looks devastated, and having been shamed in front of everyone present, books it out of the party. 

Do you see the team we make, Sakuma-san and I? I mean, seriously, we should fight crime or something. Fight crime while being porn stars at the same time, of course. Porn stars who fight crime. Come on! You know that's just the best idea for a movie, ever. 

"Um...are you alright, Sakuma-san?" And could you maybe loosen your grip just a tiny bit? If we're going to fight crime, or make pornos, I'm going to need that arm.

A rather noisy sigh issues from Sakuma-san's lips. I have a feeling that he was holding his breath the entire time. But, after this, he smiles naturally again. The way he looks up at me, as if I had just rescued him from laser-shooting mechas, well, it's enough to make a man's head swell. 

"His breath smelled like wilted celery," Sakuma-san replies, winkling up his nose.

"Gross."

"You're good at shoving people."

I can't help but laugh. "Well, actually, it was my first time."

"Oh?" He slowly begins to free my arm. "Did you like it?"

Why do I sense a hidden tone of naughtiness behind his innocent words? "Yeah, actually. Probably more than I should, considering I'm a monk."

His voice turns sultry and torrid on a dime. This one, this is the voice which curls my toes, the sound that pours out of my radio, and wraps around me like a cloud of heavy smoke. Suffocating and beautiful. "I liked watching you, Tatsuha."

Then he stands up and turns toward the party suddenly, and without explanation. Cripes! I thought we were having a moment there. I thought...

"Hey, you leaving?"

"Kumagoro has to powder his nose. You know, in the bathroom?"

Damn. What a cute way for Sakuma-san to say he has to piss. I chuckle, but before I can think, I ask, "Do you need..." I shut my trap before I can finish the question. I was just about to ask a full grown man if he needed my help to take a leak. What a moron. "...another drink?"

"Yes! Please! We'll be right back!"

"I'll be here."

I'll be waiting right here, come apocalypse or sudden orgy, I'll be waiting here.

I watch as he walks away. Alright, to tell the truth, I watch his -ass- as he walks away, both literally and figuratively. I'm ready to sprint across the room on a moment's notice to jump on any crazies that might accost him. 

Sakuma-san disappears into a hallway, and I lean back on the bar. It is only once my Deity leaves the room that I notice several things. First, the music in here is awful. But, then, any music which is not Nittle Grasper is sub-par. But, even Bad Luck is better than this jazz crap. Must be Eiri's choice. 

Second, the bartender is scowling at me.

And so is Tohma. That shit. He's glaring at me over his martini from across the room. Of course, as with Tohma, every glare is accompanied by a threateningly insipid smile. He catches my gaze and starts across the room.

Shit. This is something I do -not- need.

Fortunately, he only gets halfway across the room. At that very moment, Shuichi comes bouncing in and announces that it is time for Eiri to open his presents. Tohma gets distracted by the groan that comes from Eiri, who is sitting on the couch, looking...

Like he wishes everyone would leave. Typical.

"Present time!" Shuichi says again, clapping his hands. "Everybody gather around! Yuki is going to open presents!"

Presents...

Oh. Right. I remember...the presents...

(And the metronome swings to the left.)

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

It is one thing to wait. One thing to have faith, to possess undying hope. The passing days may linger, may spread themselves into years, but if you can cling to your belief that the object of your heart's desire will return to you, then waiting is a labor of love. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or so they say. 

But, it's not true, at least not in my case. Absence has turned my heart cold. Faith eludes me. Hope remains nonexistent. 

No, these sentiments are mere fantasy. They are what I wish could be true. If I had no hope, I would have thrown out this dumb plush toy long ago. Hope is not beautiful. It saves no one. Hope is sinister, and damning. Hope is an axe which rips my heart into shreds every night when I lock the gates to the temple. One more day has passed. One more afternoon without Ryuichi. 

The long walk to the gates can only be compared to a condemned man walking to the electric chair. I can even feel it, this nervous energy, these tiny pulses of static making my fingers tingle, this static numbing my face with horrible hope. I'm so ready to smile, so willing to forgive. No matter how much I hate myself for being unable to forget, unwilling to let go of what I know to have ended long ago, hope will not leave me. 

I pray for hope to leave me.

I pray to the gravel which crunches under my feet. I pray to the unyielding stars of Fate overhead. For fuck's sake, I'd even pray to Kumagoro, if I thought it would help. 

If he won't come back for me, surely he'd come back for the rabbit, right?

But, he never has.

I want to hate him. I want so badly to hate him. I want to hurt him in the same way that he hurt me. I want Ryuichi to be the one to wake up in the middle of the night and wonder if the most beautiful thing in his life was only a cruel dream.

I want... I need... Please, just...

The gate swings open at my merest touch. That's patient Buddhist Engineering for you. Figuring out how to make 500lb doors defy gravity, friction, and ineria. We can do this, but we can't even mend our own hearts. Religion is a good theory with very few practical applications. 

One deep breath, and I step outside of the temple grounds. This is his last chance. Last chance for tonight, anyway. Wrong. This is my last chance, for tonight, my last moment for today...

Like a metronome still counting out the beats to a long finished song, I look right, and then I look left.

"Ryuichi..."

But, he's not there. He's not coming back.

And he probably never will.

So, why do I keep looking?

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

In Our Next Chapter: A strange birthday gift. Present day Tatsuha grows even more despondent. Past Tatsuha has a run-in with Tohma. And Ryuichi is Ryuichi.

Author's Notes:

Metronome: A device to mark time or beat in music. In our story, when the metronome is mentioned in parentheses, it marks a movement forward or backward in the tale.

Yogomori: A prayer in the night, praying all night in a temple or shrine. 


End file.
